


Bad Acid

by lucienbonaparte



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Charles-centric, Drama, Drug Use, Introspection, M/M, Time Travel, groovy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucienbonaparte/pseuds/lucienbonaparte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past and present entwine when Charles agrees to take a "medicinal" dose of LSD recommended by Hank. Erik -of course- ends up involved and it's all kind of groovy yet tragic. The story takes place between the events of First Class and DOFP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Acid

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Emily, K.S., and J.W.

July  04, 1970 5:15 EST

  
"Happy fourth of July!"  
  
"LSD?" Charles spoke as he took the blot with his fingers and examined it; his eyes narrowed and the psychedelic pattern printed onto the sheet blurred in his view.  
  
Hank tried to explain, "It's only a small dose but, considering how I predict it will interact with your mutation, it's all you'll need; it won't interact at all with the serum you're taking. The ideal result should allow for enhanced mental powers as you take both, allowing you to walk without needing to sacrifice your powers."  
  
"I don't need it," Charles shook his head and tossed the tab at the floor. It floated, resembling a kaleidoscopic snowflake and was followed by Hank scrambling onto the floor to recover it.  
  
"If you change your mind, you'll need this, Charles - listen. If you ever need to use your powers again, this is what you'll have to take, provided that it works. Afterwards, I'll keep it on hand, tucked away, only as a precaution."  
  
"Provided that it works, I'll be staying away from acid. But, okay Hank, I’ll humor you.”  
  
Charles placed the tab in his mouth and waited with a look of suspicion.

15 minutes passed and confidently Charles declared, "I feel normal."  
  
"Just wait," Hank assured him and the both of them returned to silence with the only occasional foot tap.  
  
Then passed a couple more minutes and...

"Wait a minute, this room's brighter than it was..." Charles’ eyes widened, “And…this lamp…”  
  
20 minutes passed of Charles staring at the orange lampshade.  
"Say, Hank, this isn't much different than shrooms. I can't tell the difference."  
  
"Hm, you shouldn’t be hallucinating. The low dosage was only supposed to affect your abilities. But this isn’t cause for alarm. I’m sure you’ll be fine," and, though he said things were fine, Hank was stiffly jotting down something in his notepad.  
  
Charles began laughing hysterically and slapped Hank on the shoulder,  
"Relax man, relax, see…the lamp is alive...and so are we. We? We. They. Our lamp. It’s all right. It’s groovy. Hey, turn on the radio…"  
  
After turning it on, Hank sat down on the couch next to Charles and waited, staring at his notes as Charles was unmoving and simply glancing up at the ceiling in wonder. The moment was peaceful. If nothing else, Charles seemed to be feeling better than usual.  
  
But then Charles began breathing heavily. Hank turned to observe him and witnessed his eyes rolling back in his head.  
  
Charles' hand grasped at Hank's thigh before going limp.  
  
Hank frantically took Charles’ pulse; it was only moderately elevated, which was a relief, but this response to LSD was atypical. He remained observing Charles with caution.  
  
Ego death is a phenomenon that’s commonly experienced with LSD: a feeling of wholeness resulting from the destruction of boundaries between the self and the outside world. Charles acutely felt it in the beginning  but then…he experienced something else.

He was himself and, as himself, he was speeding backwards through a tunnel in his mind. Yes, he was falling back into himself and, in this state, he gained a fuller awareness of himself, as an individual, than he ever thought possible.  
  
When he regained his sight, he realized that he was no longer viewing the present moment.  
  
He was back in 1963, must have been, because he recognized his shoes were a barely worn pair of lizard skin oxfords; he’d bought them that year. But his location was something he had forgotten. He was in a taxi, looking out the window; judging by the foliage, it must have been early spring.  
  
He noticed that he had had no control of his past body.  His vision was like a recording. He was existing bodyless inside of his past skull.

  
  
The Recording – April 16, 1963 5:45:23 PM PST.

The taxi swerved.

Charles opened his eyes. There was a bright light. A bright light and a constant beep.  A plain ceiling, the smell of plastics, antiseptics, the feeling of bandages, a medical hodgepodge.  
  
The Charles of this recording no longer knew he was Charles. All he knew was that he was a person, of some sort, who had been somewhere at some point in time. And he knew this was a hospital.  
  
From his mouth, he repeated nothing but "nurse, nurse, nurse" getting progressively louder each time he stated the word.  
  
Finally, she came.

Charles asked her, "Am I dying?"  
  
"No, you're not dying. Not at all! Just a few bumps and scratches. Your head’s got somewhat of a bump but that’s the worst thing."

Considering how woozy, sore, and disoriented he felt, Charles found that description sugarcoated. And there was something else.  
  
“That’s not all…I can’t feel my legs…”  
  
"You don’t know?"  
  
Suddenly Charles heard the woman's voice again, though she had stopped moving her mouth, "Is he...okay? Brain damage. Possibly brain damage...got to go get the doctor, oh shit."  
  
"Brain damage?!?" Charles tried to grab at the nurse to hold her in place.  
  
"My, I was just thi...no, well, you were paralyzed before the accident ever happened. But I'm sure you're fine. You didn’t break anything, no serious internal bleeding. Do you remember? Do you remember where you were before you came here?"  
  
Charles thought for a moment. He felt like it was on the tip of his brain but all he had to answer was, "No...”  
  
"Let me get the doctor. This might take a while. Uh, and we have some magazines that were left here...well, not so much of a selection here but try these."

 She handed him two male adventure magazines. The first: an issue of MALE magazine from April of 1962 containing a story titled, “The Strange Redhead and her International Pleasure Legion” and the 1963 January issue of RAGE,“the magazine for real men”, which had a horribly racist and sexist cover depicting, “the 1000 sex-slaves of the whip-mad sheik” and - another highlight featured on the cover in bright red capital letters - “I was trapped in a beatnik brothel!”  
  
The woman’s voice appeared again with her mouth unopened, "these magazines are complete trash but men love this stuff, don't they? Fucking perverts. He seems like a pervert."  
  
"How do you...do that?" asked Charles, gripping the magazine in his hands as the woman was ready to leave the room.  
  
She turned around. "Do what?"  
  
"Speak without moving your mouth...you're like a ventriloquist."  
  
"I don't know what you mean."

As she walked out of the room, Charles declared, "And I don't read these! They ARE trash."  
But then he thought, "On second thought, maybe I did read them. I don't remember. But now I don't, whoever I am."  
  
For a while he sat pondering why the hospital carried such questionable reading material but his thoughts were interrupted by the return of the nurse followed by the doctor.

He heard the doctor, another talented and very rude ventriloquist, with his voice booming, "Oh, _this_ guy."  
  
"There's something...going on here," said Charles. He noted that every closed mouth utterance sounded like it was coming from inside his own head.  
  
"I was told you don't remember who you are," said the doctor.  
  
"But I remember other things," said Charles, "And it seems I'm quite capable of...many things. I know that you're a doctor, for example, I know what a doctor does, I know – yes, that’s it, I know - that I'm suffering from posttraumatic retrograde amnesia ...a particularly severe case, it seems, as I’ve not only forgotten the event but…entirely…who I am…yet...I am gaining a bit of knowledge as I'm going along."  
  
"That's a good sign," the doctor thought to himself.  
  
"Yes, it is," Charles responded, “But…”  
  
"Who were you just talking to?" asked the doctor.  
  
"I said...yes, it is. It's a good sign."  
  
The doctor cleared his throat.  
"...fascinating," were the doctor's next thoughts.  
  
Charles realized something was terribly wrong and that he was possibly reading everyone's minds...which was a terribly wrong thing to have happen.  
  
"Oh," said Charles, "I am a bit out of it, of course, with the accident..."  
  
"I'm going to start by telling you your name and showing you the contents of your wallet," explained the doctor, who then took the wallet from the nurse and handed it to Charles. "Your name is Charles Xavier. You are 31 years old. There's not much other than your ID and some money in there. But there are a couple photos which might be important. Please take a look."  
  
Charles opened his wallet and examined his ID. His first thought, upon viewing his face was, simply, “Not bad.” Next, he found the photos. The first photo was of a pleasantly smiling young woman with lush, straight blonde hair.  
  
Charles uttered aloud, "I have no idea who she is," yet he could feel sadness, some…knowing.  
  
The second photo, folded up and very worn, was of himself and a man. It seemed that they had been standing with a group which had been torn off of the left side of photo. The man’s features were incredibly well-sculpted and distinctive but Charles couldn't remember him either. Only a shadowy sense of familiarity and woe.  
  
"I think these people are dead," he told the doctor.  
  
"Well, we made several attempts to call the number on your ID...but no one has picked up. And no one has come to the hospital for you."  
  
"I might be a sad and lonely man."  
  
"We need to keep you for some tests," it was then that Charles saw a flash of images of, presumably, what the doctor had in mind: hours of an indescribably awful set of tests.  
  
"That's...quite all right. I just...remembered...I am...indeed…Charles Xavier and I'm here on business. Very important business. If I'm not in any imminent danger, it'd be best if I consulted my own doctor for further tests."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Xavier, tests or not...you must stay here until the police are able to interview you about the accident," said the doctor with his outer voice, followed by his inner voice, "He's bullshitting." Then, out loud, “But I recommend staying under our care and following through with the tests.”  
  
"Are you sure I couldn’t arrange for a later interview? Having been a passenger, I'm obviously not at fault. And, no, no sir…no tests…not now."  
  
"Unfortunately, you're an important witness," the doctor explained, “the driver’s in a coma.”

“Please, as soon as possible, I must go,” insisted Charles.

The nurse motioned to the doctor and said, "I'll call."

He nodded and turned back to Charles. "You might as well let me do some tests as you wait."  
  
"No, that's...all right," said Charles, "I'm fine."  
  
"Say, what is your profession?" asked the doctor.  
  
"Business man, obviously.  I'm here on business…yes, I remember entirely. All good now!"  
  
The doctor gave him a grin fit for a comic villain.  
  
  
July 4, 1970, 100 ft below the Pentagon 6:09 EST

 

Erik heard a voice.  
  
"Fuck," came the voice of Charles, "fuck...me...what the fuck."  
  
Erik glanced around himself. "What the…? Hello?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"This is it," Erik began his dramatic monologue, "Isolation is finally taking my sanity. I hear Charles cursing where there is no Charles. I'm alone. Alone in here. Alone in mind. I repeat: Alone. Alone. Alone...but I was feeling so sane an hour ago. I guess it happens that way. You’re fine one moment and then you just...hallucinate about Charles."  
  
  
The Recording - 1963, hospital.

 

Charles was finally alone. With this, he took out his IV and tried to get out of bed, an attempt which landed him face down on the floor. He pulled himself along the floor using his arms; shivering with fatigue and increasing dread felt for every footstep he could hear outside the room, he made his way toward a wheelchair that was next the door. 

As casually as possible, he wheeled himself down the hallway and made sure to smile at a passing nurse. She stopped. He explained he was going to the bathroom and she believed it entirely. Charles was also aware that she was stricken by his bright blue eyes.

“My family is picking me up soon and I’m afraid…I need someone to help me with my clothes,” he explained to her in a voice that came out slyer than anticipated.

“What is your name, sir?” she asked. It was brilliant. She didn’t suspect a thing.

“Xavier. Charles, Xavier,” he said, “But could you please…you’re the only one I’d like to help me now. Not that other nurse, Carrie…she hasn’t been the kindest. Oh, and that doctor…”

“I understand,” she responded, “Just a second.” And she disappeared down the hall.

Charles again started to ponder.

"So, I can hear thoughts, my name's Charles, and I..."

He had the feeling that he’d forgotten something terribly important. Not a little detail such as his favorite ice cream shop back home - but something huge. Not only his past romantic relationships...if he had any and surely he must have because – “Just look at myself,” he thought, “I must be popular with the ladies.” - he had forgotten everything about his family, his identity.  But there was something larger than that. Something larger than himself.  
  
"A war, perhaps? Could I have forgotten a whole war? Something...some sort of a...struggle." Trying to remember it felt akin to trying to shout underwater. He couldn’t connect to any idea in this deep, vastness of forgotten memory. Whatever this thing was, all he knew was that it was monolithic yet entirely incomprehensible at this point in time.  
  
He felt like he had a bigger chance of remembering the ice cream shop. Did he even like ice cream? Yes, he did. And he knew he liked mint chocolate chip. But the shop? No. He imagined a little shop in a very green town with cream paneled walls and a man, at the counter, with one of those hats but it felt more like imagination than memory. The shop had no name.

The nurse returned and convinced Charles to return to his room for the sake of getting dressed and left after handing him his clothes. Initially Charles wondered how he’d manage to dress himself but he figured it out relatively quickly. It did take him several minutes to get on his pants and shoes and, though it wasn’t awfully long and dreadful, it reminded him that – this person he’d come into being – was…different. He felt pleased with certain things he’d discovered about himself. “Charles is a nice name,” he thought, “And I have nice clothes.” But he practically felt like a newborn with being thrown into this body – his legs, his mind-reading, the car accident.  For a second, he considered giving up and staying in the hospital. “They could help me with this…”

But, on second thought, that doctor was sinister, with questionable plans, and ultimately Charles concluded that he felt capable enough to go on his own into the world.

So, again, he made his way down the hallway.

But it wasn't long before he was stopped by an elderly man who had wandered out of his room in a robe.

“Say, young man…”

“Yes?”

“Have you been to the movies lately?”

“I don’t know…”

“There’s a new one out with that…Elfis.”

“Elfis?”

“That Elfis guy. It takes place here in Seattle. He meets a pretty nurse. You know, Jan? Jan O’ Brien?”

“You mean…Joan?”

“Yes, Jan. She’s the nurse in that one. If only we had a Jan here.”

“Well, I…”

“I hate that damned spacey needle they built then.”

“I have to…”

“I’ll never go to the top. For as long as I live!”

“Sir, I…”

“You like that spacey needle?”

The man finally waited for a response. “Well, I don’t have an opinion on it…” Charles said, “But I…”

“You know that old ranger? On that Death Valley Days? You watch that one?”

“No, I…”

“It’s sponsored by that company…the Pacific Borack Company.”

“That’s very…”

“I helped build that Civic Center for them over there in Death Valley.”

“Oh…”

“Anyway, I came here looking for my magazines…”

Charles finally managed to get a word in. “Do you happen to be looking for Male…and Rage?”

“Young man! How did you know?”

“They’re in my room! 30B…on the left of the hall…hurry.”

“Now, why would I have to hurry? I’m sorry I forgot to ask your name.”

Charles heard footsteps and glanced behind himself. It was the doctor. Upon seeing Charles, the doctor sped up his pace.

“I have to…” Charles once again tried to say he had to go as he started to roll his wheels.

But the man wouldn’t budge and continued with his talk, “Now, now, I should introduce myself first.”

“Mr. Xavier!” shouted the doctor behind them and, by now, he was so close that he was in the process of reaching his hand out to grab Charles by the shoulder.

The sense of urgency drove Charles into a rage. “Enough!” he shouted and the force of his frustration produced a strange sensation in his head…almost as if he could feel a shockwave…

…it froze everyone.  

The doctor, the old man, all were unmoving.

“Well, that’s handy,” Charles said to himself as he made his way out.

When outside, he managed to unfreeze things and – somewhat reluctantly - found a taxi to take.

“I need a hotel,” he told the driver, “Somewhere nice.”

He was taken somewhere....but whether it was nice or not was unclear.

It was a hotel situated on a pier. “The Edgewater Inn” with a sign declaring, “Fish From Your Window”. A year later it would become famous for a visit by the Beatles. For now, it was Charles’ curious location to stay for the night.

Until the man at the desk told him, rather curtly, “No rooms.”

He was then brought to the Sorrento. “Well, why didn’t you bring me hear first?” Charles was exhausted and becoming understandably cranky. He was also disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to discover the joys of fishing from a hotel window. Well, maybe someday.

So he rolled into the lobby of this Sorrento place and he asked at the desk about vacancy.

“Yes…” Charles heard the clerk’s thoughts as he searched.

“Nevermind, I’ll be back. I’m getting a drink first." Charles made his way to the Fireside Lounge.

It was there that he spotted him.

“My god,” Charles thought as he took the photo out of his wallet to double check, “What are the chances that another man would have that admirably sculpted jawline? That hairstyle? That...style?”  
  
  
1970, Below Pentagon

"It's you," said Charles' voice again.  
  
"Charles?" Erik jumped, "Is that really you?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Get the fuck out of my head. I don't need you here right now," said Erik, "How the fuck you've managed, I don't know. But, if this is real, go."  
  
"I don't mean to be here. I really don't want to be here."  
  
"Then go," but as Erik said those words and especially that word 'go', though he wanted to have meant it, he knew he didn't and that Charles must have been aware of his lack of conviction.  
  
  
1963

Charles came up to the man. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat before speaking. His voice didn’t come out as loudly as hoped. "Well, I'm here...and I'm very fine...I had a bit of an accident but...I'm fine, as you see."  
  
The man managed to hear him and looked a bit like someone had flushed his favorite goldfish down the toilet - speechless. That’s when Charles went into his mind and found...

"Charles?"  
  
"Yes! It's you! You know me!" Charles followed his words with the biggest grin he’d had…since as far back as he could remember (the biggest grin since he’d escaped the hospital).  
  
The man shot up from his seat, "Stay...away. Stay away from me. I don't know why you're here and smiling like an idiot at me...but no."  
  
He ran off. Charles couldn't keep up so he went over to the front desk and, after showing the man at the desk the picture in his wallet, used his various tricks to obtain the man's room number.  
   
When he found the room, he knocked, rather musically.

The man yelled out, "What are you doing here?"

Charles asked, "Are you sure I didn't come with you?"

"What?"

"It's strange that we happen to be in the same town away from home...if I didn't come with you...and if I wasn't visiting you," said Charles.

"It's a coincidence!"

"Well, I believe I know you and I’d like to talk." There was silence for a moment before Charles started again, "Please..."  
  
The door opened, held ajar at first. After a second of the man glancing him up and down, it was opened fully.

He was now wearing a metal helmet.

"Why do you have that on?" asked Charles, "Are you interested in the medieval period? Is that an attempt at a replica of some helmet worn by a soldier in the crusades? Hm, it’s not really accurate. Or a science fiction enthusiast? Is this a Martian thing? Or Venusian, perhaps? "  
  
"What?" the man was pissed, "Of course not. Are you kidding?"  
  
"Well, it's an understandable question to ask as I don't often see people wearing helmets like that…at least not that I remember," but then Charles had a sudden realization, "Oh...is it that...you know about me, don't you?"  
  
"Of course I know about you..."  
  
"You know about my powers...and you don't want me to use them on you...which means you're hiding something from me"  
  
"What...happened...to you?" the man was aghast, “And what about those…shoes? Lizard skin? I’ve never seen them before. Bold choice.”

“Neither have I,” shrugged Charles.

“But what the hell happened to you?”

“I was trapped in a beatnik brothel.” Charles delivered this line with complete seriousness.

There was silence for a moment but the man managed to break out in confused laughter. “No, no, really…that makes no sense. What happened to you?”  
  
"Car accident. Retrograde amnesia. I have no idea what I do and I have very little idea of who you are other than that there's a picture of you in my wallet..."  
  
"You keep a picture of me in your wallet?"  
  
"Yes...I...is that odd? Should I not keep a picture of you in there? Why...why is there a picture of you?"  
  
"Don't ask me...I wouldn't know. I thought you hated me now."  
  
"Why would I hate you? When I saw the photo, I thought you were an old friend."

"Nevermind why."

"Take off the helmet."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"No..."  
  
"Yes, take it off."  
  
"I can't. This is..."  
Unbeknownst to Charles, the man thought to himself, "This is fantastic. He doesn't remember a thing! As long as I keep on the helmet...maybe I could bring him over to my side!"  
  
Charles was impatient. "At least tell me a little about myself...and about yourself...what's your name?"  
  
"Magneto," the man responded.  
  
"What? What's your real name?"  
  
"My real name is Magneto…and Erik.”  
  
"All right then, Mr. Magneto Erik, what kind of relationship did we have, exactly?"  
  
Erik laughed.  
  
"What's funny?" Charles asked.  
  
"Nothing...nothing...just...I'm not really sure what kind of relationship we had."  
  
"Were we friends?"  
  
"I think there was a bit more to it than that."  
  
"Oh, I mean, I'm not that surprised. A little surprised but I just didn't assume because, you know." Charles was flustered.  
  
"What did you think when you found that photo of me in your wallet? When you couldn't remember who I was, what did you think of me?" Erik asked eagerly.  
  
"I thought you were someone who died. You say I must have hated you but I didn't feel that...no hatred, no anger. There was a curious sense of sadness," Charles explained.  
  
Erik paused for a moment. It almost seemed that his eyes were starting to water but his face, though serious now, remained rather still. And then he said, rather lively, "Well, I'm here. I'm alive."  
  
"I'm glad to have found you again."  
  
"Charles...we just had a misunderstanding. You don't remember but it was a silly thing...which you shouldn't bother yourself over. And I'm going to tell you now who you are, what you are, what I am, why we should be together, and what we should do."  
  
"But even if it was a silly misunderstanding...I'd like to know what it was...so that I could judge for myself. Now, you know...because of how I reacted to your photo, I must not hold any grudge against you deep inside. Perhaps, from my current perspective, I could let whatever it is go...but I need to know," Charles sighed, "I'm not stupid. You understand that, right?"  
  
Erik grabbed Charles' hand and looked right into his eyes as he spoke, "Obviously, you’re a genius. But, Charles, you believed we didn't want the same thing...yet you misunderstood me."  
  
"What is it that we both want?"

"Do you remember what you are?"  
  
"Well, I have powers..."  
  
"You're a mutant. And I'm a mutant."  
  
"Ah, the powers...are mutations," Charles nodded, “That makes sense…”  
  
"Yes, um, you should go read your own papers about it sometime."  
  
"I've written papers...," mumbled Charles, "That's fantastic."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Erik sat simply looking at Charles, tilting his helmeted head ever so slightly. Then Charles spoke again, "Mr...Erik..."  
  
"You don't have to call me Mr," Erik laughed, "But my last name's Lehnsherr"  
  
"There's another photo in my wallet," Charles continued, "If possible, could you help me identify who it is?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Charles fumbled with his wallet and produced the photo of the blonde woman.  
  
"Ah, yes, her name's Mystique."  
  
"Does everyone I know have a funny name?"  
  
"They aren't funny," replied Erik as he shoved the photo back into Charles' hands. Charles stared at it as he listened, "And you're Professor X."  
  
Charles mouthed the words, "Professor X," he shrugged, “I’m not surprised that I’m a professor.”

Erik seemed a bit impatient. But Charles continued in his questioning, "So, who is she?"  
  
"You grew up with her. You two were very close."  
  
"Were...?"  
  
"She's been with me. We had to go out in the world. You stayed home for a while. Charles…" Erik paused, "…that's all. In fact, she'll be here in a few days. Now that we’re reunited, you can see her again."  
  
"Take off the helmet," pleaded Charles, "Just for a second"  
  
"I would...but you broke my trust," said Erik, "I can't trust you not to go certain places in my head. If you could remember, you'd know that I have good reason."  
  
"But I can't remember any of this...if you’d let me into your head, I could see our memories. Not just the bad ones. The good ones too. I want to see those," Charles’ eyes started to water.  
  
"Trust...me..." Erik said, still impatient, with his teeth clenched as he grabbed Charles' hand, “ _Sometimes the mind just needs to discover things for itself_. You’ll know in time.”  
  
  
1970, below Pentagon

 

"1963..." Charles' voice came again.  
  
"What about 1963?" asked Erik.  
  
"I don't want to remember 1963."

 

1963, Hotel

  
"Come closer," Charles begged.  
  
Erik leaned in a bit but stopped.  
  
"I'm not going to take it off," Charles said, glancing at the helmet.  
  
Erik reached and tugged on Charles' shirt, "You sure you're not going to take it off?"  
  
"Oh, this?,” Charles grabbed at the top button on his shirt, “It is a little hot in here, isn't it?"  
  
Erik moved closer and kissed Charles' lips. He started softly but the kiss exponentially increased in passion. Charles lost his focus for a moment. He experienced a second amnesia. At that time, there was nothing he knew, remembered, or cared for in the world other than that moment when he reciprocated the kiss.  
  
Erik set himself onto Charles' lap and continued to kiss him deeply, slowly grinding against him. Charles grabbed onto Erik's back and dug his fingers into the fabric of his shirt…but he was brought out of the moment when he noticed Erik touching his helmet to steady it on his head after Charles had tapped it on accident. Erik began kissing Charles' neck with one hand on his cheek and the other undoing his pants.  
  
"Erik, wait," Charles managed to speak but Erik kissed him again on the mouth. He pushed at Erik with his hands, which Erik then tried to grab to pin down.  
  
Erik stopped kissing, tore himself away for a bit and sat with his arms still holding Charles' arms, looking intently into Charles' eyes.  
  
"Magneto…Erik," Charles was thinking for a bit and then he spoke again, shaking his head, "It's okay. Keep going."  
  
"You sure?" Erik smiled wide and started to go in for another kiss.  
  
But it was at that moment that Charles grabbed his helmet and threw it off.  
  
"Charles...no," Erik tried to use his powers to bring his helmet back but, in the short amount of time it took to bring it back to his hand, Charles had already forced his way into his mind.  
  
Charles took so much into his mind at once that he perceived a blistering sensation enveloping his head that made him squirm.

He saw Erik holding him on the beach in Cuba, he cringed as the coin tore through Shaw's head, he saw Erik moving the satellite, he saw himself trying to push Erik above water...

_You're not alone._

 

1970

 

"Charles, If this is really you...I want to tell you that...I do care."  
  
"I don't believe it," Charles’ image appeared in the cell.  
  
Erik jumped, "What the fuck, Charles."  
  
Charles' image was flashing as if someone was turning him on and off rapidly, like a child playing with a lightswitch.  
  
"But stop," pleaded Erik, "Stop."  
  
"Stop what? Stop...you asshole. You are an asshole, Erik, all you will do is lie to me," said Charles, his voice slurred.  
  
Erik had no more words.  
  
  
1963

 

"No," Charles whispered and then a little louder he repeated, "No, no, no." until it turned into a shout.  
  
Erik slammed the helmet back onto his head and maintained his distance.  
  
Charles lowered his hands from his head. "You lied to me."  
  
"You betrayed my trust as well," said Erik, “Again.”  
  
"What would you have done if you were me?"  
  
"If I were you? I would have done the right thing for our people. I would have done the right thing for us."  
  
"You need to listen to me, Erik..." Charles began to speak but Erik raised his hand and flipped over his wheelchair. His side felt raw, he was sore, and gasping for air.  
  
Erik raised his hand again.  
  
"Erik..." Charles strained to utter his name.  
  
Erik hesitated, lowered his hand for a moment, but raised it again.

"I'm sorry. When you had the amnesia, I thought I had a chance to make things work. I was wrong. But I didn't want to do this," Erik lamented as he raised a lamp in the air and proceeded to shoot it into Charles' head.  
  
For Charles of the year 1963, the world went blank.

  
  
1970

 

"I thought...maybe you would forget again," said Erik.  
  
"You...thought...so...wrong," Charles was hyperventilating as he spoke, his image flashing on and off and on and off in Erik's cell.  
  
Erik stood, wide-eyed and discernibly uncomfortable as he watched as Charles' eyes roll back into his head...and the image of him vanished.  
  
Erik ran over to the spot and waved his hands around. He didn’t know what he was expecting. He couldn’t bring Charles’ image back. That wasn’t his power.

  
  
1970, the X-Mansion

 

"Wake up...can you hear me? Wake up...what have I done..." Hank was trying very hard to hold in tears.  
  
"Hank?" Charles opened his eyes. He became aware of a song playing on the radio. It was Let it Be by The Beatles.

_What could be heard precisely at that moment was[this](https://youtu.be/qhtO1M1eVS0?t=1m4s)  
_

 “Turn it off,” Charles groaned with his head pounding, “Off…”  
  
"Are you okay? How do you feel?" asked Hank, ignoring his plea,  "Your heart rate was out of control just a second ago."  
  
"What the fuck happened, Hank?"  
  
"What's the last thing you remember?"  
  
"This morning, I had pancakes - very patriotic pancakes - you even colored them with blue and red food coloring. It was really ridiculous and unnecessary. After that, I was reading for a while...and that's all I remember."  
  
"You don't remember anything after that?"  
  
"What the hell did I do, Hank?"  
  
"...you had some bad acid."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"I...I gave you bad acid."  
  
"What the fuck, Hank, don't ever do that again."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I didn't make it 100% perfect! Not even the punctuation! Oh no! What have I done?  
> 2\. Sorry EMILY.  
> 3\. This story is also dedicated to the city of Seattle. I really liked Seattle when I was 9 years old. I went there ONCE. I bought a purse that could transform into a patchwork rat stuffed animal thing. I can't explain it but it was really nifty. If there's still a lady who sells those, tell her I said hi.


End file.
